Burn
by Bizzy
Summary: [Epilogue up] His talent lies in manipulation of fire, and he won't hesitate to use it to destroy. Until she asks him to help destroy a part of her.
1. Chapter 1

_Burn_

I don't own FMA, alas, forsooth, and all of that stuff.

This will have **manga spoilers**.

The key part to know (before you even bother moving on) is that I have not actually read the manga up to the chapter where this happens. I just know that the information is revealed. This story is Royai, Roy Mustang and Riza Hawkeye centric, it may get romantic/fluffy-ish, but it will be angsty.

Because I haven't read up to this chapter, I just know that this has happened, it is speculation. Enjoy! I'm posting up to a certain point. I'm tempted to mark this complete, but I'm not certain just yet. Reading and reviewing might have an impact on if there's more to this.

* * *

She had been sitting silently at the edge of the roof, chin resting upon her knees as amber eyes stared up at the sky. The news had reached her only about half an hour ago, if even, and all she could do now was contemplate the thought of a bed, of warm rooms and blankets and closed doors. Of nights sleeping properly instead of keeping one eye open and a gun at hand. The Ishbal Rebellion was officially considered _complete_ and soldiers were being returned to wherever their original station had been.

As lovely a concept as this was, she couldn't help but be afraid. Afraid because so much had happened, so much had changed and every time she closed her eyes she could see the flames burning, smell the ash and the sickening smell of burning flesh and she knew those thoughts, those memories would not leave her soon. Closing her eyes, she sighed. This was far from over.

The climb up to the roof was precarious and he had stumbled a few times on his way up. Then again, she was a sniper, and it made perfect sense for her to take up a position in some ridiculously high vantage point because that was in her nature. When he settled himself down beside her, he took a slow, deep breath. She smelled of gunpowder and smoke, her own unique perfume that he would always recognize. Why he recognized it, he couldn't place—but he did.

She didn't turn when he sat down beside her, shoving snow away from his body as he peered at her, puzzled. The look her face didn't suit the young features he had come to know over the time he spent learning with her father. She seemed distressed, which didn't seem to ring true to him as they had all been told of their immediate dismissal of the Ishbal territories, beginning the next morning. The somber look on her face bothered him, and he was so tempted to ask, and at the same time, wary.

"Hello Major Mustang." Her voice was quiet and level and to his ears it sounded almost as awkward as _Mister Mustang_, only now with a military formality to it. But he had to smile at the familiarity of her tone; no matter how much time had past since he had seen her, she sounded exactly the same.

"Cadet Hawkeye," he replied softly. She was staring blindly ahead of her, fingers drumming against the metal barrel of her shotgun. Yellow hair fell loose into her eyes, and she sighed, swallowing nervously.

For a few moments, they sat silently again, the snow beginning to drift down around them, settling atop the roof, their heads and their shoulders. Mustang scrubbed his fingers through his hair to alleviate some of the snow, settling small droplets of water in his gloves. He grumbled something that was incomprehensible, and pulled the hood of his coat over his head, before glancing at her with a sigh, ink-black eyes concerned. "You'll catch a cold without a hat on."

Hawkeye shrugged, but to appease him, tugged the hood over her head as well, before feeling her body shrink beneath the loose fabric. It was chilly out here, and for the first time in weeks she longed for the crackle of a fire.

Again, silence reigned. She drummed her fingers atop the metal barrel time and time again, creating a consistent rhythm that reminded him of someone beating a drum, until he couldn't bear it and a hand stilled her fingers. Eyes widened, and she shot him a look somewhere between frustration and anger, before stilling her hands.

"I wonder if you remember my father telling you that I have his research," she said softly, releasing the shotgun and folding her hands together around her knees.

"How could I forget?" he asked somberly, before suddenly understanding her question. Mustang turned, sending a puff of snow into the air. "Why do you ask?"

"I…" she paused, hands clenching into fists. She turned her face away from him. "Burn it, Roy."

The way his name rolled off of her tongue, the plaintive sound, the hesitance, it sounded familiar and distant and in the end, wrong. It sounded awkward, though it should've come easier to his ears, his first name rather than his military title. Instead, it sounded just _wrong_.

"I don't think I understand."

She bit her lip, pressing her forehead against her knees. "They used what he taught you to kill people," Hawkeye whispered. "He wanted his alchemy to help people. But in the wrong hands his research…it kills them. He's turning in his gave, Roy, because what he wanted to be helpful is being used for murder. His research could…"

It seemed to click, and he nodded slowly, a hand tapping her shoulder, only to silence her. "I understand," he said quietly. It made perfect sense. For so long, as far as the eye could see, there was fire. Flames that he caused, burns that he caused, with what little alchemical knowledge he had. Hawkeye-sensei was a brilliant man, and his research could be far more powerful than could be handled. He understood her fears. "If you give me whatever research notes he has, I'll burn them for you, as you asked." A request he could fulfill for her. She had asked for his help and for once, he could help her.

"He doesn't have research notes," she mumbled against her kneecaps, swallowing hard. "_I'm_ his notes."

The words hung in the air, snow obscuring them until he wasn't so sure he could understand what she wanted of him. She was his notes? She had his notes, but he had never written notes? She _was_ his notes? As she sat in silence beside him, he tried to process what exactly she wanted him to do. Her fingers were drumming on the barrel of that gun again, and he wanted to throw it off the roof if only he could have silence to think. "You don't want me to burn his notes," he tested tentatively, shaking his head. "You want me to burn…you."

She nodded slowly.

Mustang was angry. No, not angry, furious. How could she even ask this of him, think that this was a reasonable request and sit here and expect him to accept it without a second thought? He was furious with her. How could she even think such a thing?

"Please. I can't do it myself," she whispered. The desperation in her voice unnerved him, and he sighed heavily, shaking his head just slightly.

"All right," he said quietly. "Show me what you need. I'll…try."

* * *

Standing outside the small doorway to the cadet's apartment was making him nervous and if one more person stopped to stare at him, standing outside Hawkeye's door, he wasn't sure what he'd do with himself. Apparently, not many military personnel stayed here, as an elderly woman even stopped to ask him if he was actually _in_ the military—and if he knew that young woman whose door he was standing at.

Finally, the door opened a crack, "Major Mustang," she said quietly, stepping aside to leave him room to go in. The smile on her face was fake, and he knew it instantly, but he crossed inside anyway.

"Rumor has it that you've been granted reprieve of completing training at the military academy, and will get your diploma after the time you've spent there," he said, the small-talk topic he had been rehearsing for ages coming to him easier than it should have.

She nodded slowly.

"Where are you going to be stationed, once your leave is over?"

"Eastern Headquarters, most likely," she said quietly. Mustang slid his coat off of his shoulders, and she took it, hanging it on a small hook by the door. She was frowning just slightly as she ushered him into the sitting room. "I'm sorry to be so forward." Riza looked to the door, before hurrying back to it, and clicking the lock. Once that was done, she checked it a second time, before crossing back over to him, amber eyes still wide with nerves.

"I know," Roy replied quietly, meeting her hesitant gaze, "this isn't a social visit. May I see it?" he asked, voice gentle and level. Her eyes shifted to the floor, and she could feel a flush crawling onto her cheeks. Somewhere in the pit of her stomach, she felt like she was violating some trust she had with her father.

"It's all right," he assured her, as soothingly as he could. Somewhere, he could understand her hesitance; this was her father's research, that she was currently asking her father's student to destroy.

After a moment's hesitation, she turned her back to him, scrambling to undo the buttons of her blouse. If he was taken aback, he did everything in his power to not show it, and stood as still as he could hold himself as she started to slide the shirt off of her shoulders. Pulling it around to her front, she held it tightly to her chest, closing her eyes, holding her breath.

The unmistakable image of a transmutation array met Roy's eyes, and he had to swallow thickly to keep back the noise of _frustration_ that brewed somewhere within his throat. The tattoo was immense and detailed and he could only imagine not only the painstaking work of applying it, but the pain of having it applied. Suddenly, his mind was filling with thoughts of Hawkeye-sensei using his daughter for testing his alchemy, for experiments and practice—the concept was enough to make him sick. It was only when he was aware of the fact that her shoulders were trembling that he snapped back to the task at hand.

Very slowly, he reached out to finger the edges of the array, charcoal eyes immersed in the intricate patterns. The basic circle that he could draw with his eyes closed was set in the center, bent slightly at the curvature of her spine. His eyes were tracing the pattern of what appeared to be snakes, running almost like a helix around the circle. He couldn't even begin to comprehend the complexity of the array; it would take him ages to even start to grasp the concept behind each detail.

After a few moments of silence, him still tracing the array and her still sitting as frozen as stone, she coughed nervously. "Major?"

He froze in his assessment of the array, and dropped his hands. "Hm?" His eyes were hardly removed from the task before him, however.

"Will you be able to burn it?"

The quiet question snapped him out of his trance of curiosity, and he had to shake his head more than once to process her question. This intricate, detailed, intelligent—no, amazing—alchemical array, she wanted burned. Destroyed. "Not the whole thing. It's too big to mar without severely hurting you in the process."

She tensed, pulling away from his touch. "The top left," she said slowly. "He spent so much time working on the top left; it makes me want to say it's the most important. Can you…?"

He moved a hand to her shoulder, wearily. "I can try, but," pausing, Roy sighed. "This will hurt you, Riza. Burns. You realize you're asking me to—"

"I know," she exclaimed, hands still gripping her blouse tightly to her chest. "I know what I'm asking you to do. But…" after hesitation, she shook her head. "He trusted you, Roy. So do I. He wanted you to have this research, so copy it. Sear it into your mind, the full image." Riza turned slightly, looking up at him from over her shoulder. "And then burn it, so nobody else will ever see it."

If she begged this of him one more time, he wasn't certain what he'd do. The desperation in her voice was enough to send him reeling, and he wanted to help her but in some way that didn't involve risking her life. And he knew that she was well aware of what she asked of him. He knew the moment the question slipped through her lips. She was an intelligent young woman, and though she didn't use alchemy she knew enough to understand that what was on her back was _dangerous_. And she was willing to do whatever it took to try and destroy the information.

Destruction. Flame had _always_ been about destruction.

"Can I trust my back to you, Roy? Please…" _Don't let me down_.

* * *

Every night, he returned to her apartment, and sat silently, staring.

At first, it was simply the array that charcoal eyes would focus on, the intricate pattern, delicate lines and painstaking work that must've taken years to complete. The weaving of one detail into another, forming perfect circles and patterns he was only in the early stages of deciphering. But after two weeks of painstaking copying and memorizing and analyzing, his eyes would stray from the black ink, instead taking in the curving of her spine, the way her neck sloped forwards when she rested her head against a chair as he studied the array, the way her shoulders would begin to slouch and lose all sense of military posture after sitting still for hours on end. His eyes would take in the pale skin, unblemished, and he would try to understand why he would allow himself to tarnish such a beautiful body.

Because she asked him. Because she trusted him to try and decode her father's work, and to destroy it at the same time. If nothing else, her quiet trust had won him over, and he couldn't turn on her now.

So, when it had been nearly a month, he came to her apartment with a bag at hand, stuffed with what appeared to be an inappropriate amount of materials, before setting them on the floor. Her eyes followed him as he walked around the room, and she sat down in her customary spot in front of him, waiting for him to study as he had every night for so long.

He reached out a hand to stop her. "Not tonight," he said quietly. "I've gotten it memorized," he said quietly. "I can draw it. I want to map out how to go on from here."

She tilted her head just slightly. "I don't understand—map it out?"

He shrugged, trying to hide the concern in his eyes. "Ordinarily, it's aim and shoot; the goal is to damage the target. But here, the goal is to destroy that tattoo as best as I can without hurting you. I want to know everything I possibly can beforehand. I want to know the way the wind moves in this room, I want to know how high the ceiling is, I want to know the concentration of water in the air—anything that might makes this fire more difficult to control. Its safest this way."

The woman's shoulders sank. He had no intention of doing this now.

"Not to mention that you can't possibly expect to take care of the burn alone—it will take a long time to heal." His unsaid words seemed to hit her the hardest: _I wouldn't purposefully hurt you and then leave you. I couldn't._

She smiled at him wearily. "You don't have to worry about what happens afterward," she said softly. "I didn't ask you to monitor my health, just to destroy his research…"

"I'm not going to dangerously injure your back and then leave you here to treat the wound yourself, if that is what you are insinuating. You've requested a favor of me, which I have agreed to. Now, my request is that you allow me to make sure that my favor doesn't _kill_ you. It's the least you can do in response to my kindness."

She bent her head, yellow hair obscuring her features. "Thank you, Roy." She said softly, barely a whisper. "What can I do to help you?"

Charcoal eyes gazed upwards, already contemplating the air currents, the height of the ceiling. "I'll be working in Eastern Headquarters as well, and I would be honored if you would work as a part of my time."

She spun around, though if she was startled or honored she didn't know. But after a moment of contemplation, she smiled. "The honor would be mine, sir."

* * *

For another week, he came to her apartment and mapped out, minute-by-minute, his plan. Together, they calculated figures, research the way the human body would react to the stress of a large burn, and tried best to foresee the unpredictable.

It was Friday evening when he asked her if she would like to have lunch with him the next afternoon. As the plan had been to do the burning that evening, he thought it only right to be kind to her before injuring her. She was slightly taken aback and, after a few moments of silence, offered to cook lunch for him—as a thank you gift, she explained.

When he arrived at 1100 hours on Saturday, she was cooking, though she didn't seem to acknowledge his presence when he entered.

"Good morning, _Second Lieutenant_."

One hand had been holding a spoon, and it clattered into the pan. She scrambled to dig it out before it was too hot to touch, and turned slightly to peer at him over her shoulder. "I beg your pardon, Major?"

"Lieutenant Colonel, actually, Hawkeye. With the assignment at Eastern Headquarters, I've been promoted—as well as you." He paused, taking a moment to process the look of shock on her face. "You _were_ released from Ishbal with honors, Hawkeye, for the lives you saved—"

"—Odd how they don't mention the lives I _took_."

"That is a standpoint I will not tolerate!" he snapped sharply, his gaze suddenly dark. "We both took lives in Ishbal, which is something we may always regret. But do you know something, Hawkeye?"

She swallowed nervously, sensing the anger in his tone. "What, sir?"

"That is not the way to look at what was done. What we did _had_ ended lives—but it also protected the members of our unit we were on the field with. I would like to think you would know that!"

Ashamed of her response, she went back to stirring, gaze clouded. "I apologize."

Silence reigned for a few moments, and Mustang lowered himself into a chair. "Knowing that, even out in war, what I did was also useful in protecting people has directed my goal in the military."

Hawkeye turned, leaving the pot settled on the countertop. "And what might that goal be?"

"The Fürher. I want to be Fürher, to keep things like Ishbal from happening again. I want to reform the way civilians view the military. Instead of being afraid or wary, I want people to trust us. I want them to know that their government is doing its best to protect them. Does that make sense, Lieutenant?"

Amber eyes were slightly wide, but she nodded slowly. "It does, sir."

His weary frown turned to just a small smile, and he nodded to her. "I'm glad." After pausing, Mustang swallowed, "I trust you, and I want you by my side as I work towards this."

She smiled at him, almost nervously. The compliment did not go unnoticed.

"I want you to know that you're to shoot me if I ever stray the path of trying to help the people of this country."

"But—"

"Take that as your first order from your commanding officer, Lieutenant. Am I understood?"

After closing her eyes and turning her face from him, she nodded. "Yes, sir."

Pausing, he smiled. "Good. Now what is it that you are cooking? I've never known you to be much of a cook."

* * *

Dishes were in the sink, and for the third time she asked him to just allow her to wash them. For the third time, he told her no, stating that it might disrupt the concentration of water in the air or something alchemically relevant that she didn't grasp, and told her not to worry about that now. The dishes would still be there later.

Hawkeye's stomach was in knots. She knew that Mustang was in her sitting room, laying out first-aid supplies. She knew that he was again doing calculations that may, in the end, make very little difference in the safety of this escapade. She knew that he could very likely be just as nervous as she. All she could concentrate on was their plans, what the plans meant. He had snuck a hospital gown from headquarters, saying that with ties in the back it would be more practical, particularly when he planned to check the wounds and care for them. Slipping it on, she shuddered at the chill in the air, and grabbed a blanket, wrapping it around her shoulders.

Mustang swallowed thickly, staring at the different accoutrements for his own comfort—antiseptic, bandages and aloe to cool her skin, blankets and towels, water. He knew she was probably getting into the gown and he wondered if she was cold. He knew she could be standing in her bedroom, reconsidering this whole fiasco and only hoped that she was. He was hoping that she was taking a moment to collect herself. And he was certain that he was probably nervous, even more nervous than he.

When she walked back into the sitting room, he winced. Something about knowing what he planned to do to her made her seem so tiny beneath that blanket, shuddering just slightly. He guided her wordlessly to the chair and eased the blanket off her shoulders. Instinctively, she braced her hands against the chair, gripping tightly. They had rehearsed this setup more than once, spoken about each and every step. He was undoing the ties of the gown when he swore he heard her gasp, and then saw the tensing of her back as she held her breath. Fear was almost radiating from her, and it took an inconceivable amount of self control for him to not call the whole thing off.

"Here," he said quietly, pulling a small washcloth from the countertop, and handing it to her. He guided her hand towards her mouth, the frown deepening. "If you bite it…"

She nodded slowly, not turning to face him. "I know," she whispered. To stifle screams. She had sworn up and down that she could hold her tongue, but his concern was that if she bit down too hard she might hurt herself. And so, she compromised with this washcloth, if only to ease his nerves.

After a moment of awkward silence, he swallowed. "You're _sure_ you're all right to stand? If you sit backwards in the chair…"

"This is easier for you, is it not?"

"It is, but—"

"Then I can stand." The determination in her voice sent a quick shudder down his spine, and he felt the small hairs bristle on the back of his neck. This was so different.

Slowly, he nodded. All he could do now was hope that this went a close to plan as possible, that every step went as originally plotted. Hawkeye leaned forwards against the chair, the piece of fabric loosely between her teeth, eyes wide open. Carefully, he ran his hand over the intricate array. He felt her tense up against her touch, and sighed. Charcoal black eyes scanned the beautiful circle once again, for what he knew was the last time. And it _was_ beautiful, done with craftsmanship that he knew he might never see again and could never properly replicate. But he understood why she asked this of him.

"Are you ready?"

Hawkeye nodded just slowly, and Mustang closed his eyes, gathering his courage. One hand reached into his pocket and produced the ignition-cloth glove, slipping it on. Gently, he rested a palm on her right shoulder, the gloved hand settling at the level of her left shoulder, and he snapped.

Instantly, searing pain shot through her, and she felt herself biting down hard on the cloth, fingers gripping the chair so tightly that her knuckles turned bleach white. His hand on her right shoulder tightened as he tried to hold her trembling body still, and she let out an incomprehensible sound that was far too pained for him to bear, and he tried to close his ears to the noise. The flame ripped across her back, and when it finally died out, he paused to inspect it. It was not deep enough; he could see the ink still etched in the skin and he shook his head. It hadn't been a deep enough burn; for effect, it would have to be done again. But she was whimpering in pain, still gripping the chair so tightly, her knees close to buckling beneath her, he couldn't bring himself to do it.

By his stillness, she could tell that he wasn't pleased with the result. Through silent tears, she yanked the fabric from her mouth, "_just do it, Roy._"

Mustang nodded, the grip on her uninjured shoulder tightening still as he snapped for a second time. Unlike before, she inadvertently gasped in pain, her hands losing their grip. The flame burned across her skin, the sickening smell of flesh hanging in the air. Her vision faded in and out at the edges, but she was aware of an arm now around her waist, supporting her. It was Mustang, she realized after trying to piece the situation together in her mind, and he was shaking. And she was almost certain he was distressed.

He couldn't release her side, because her knees had obviously buckled beneath her weight. But he couldn't bring himself to do this a third time. The ink was still present. Visible, and present. Mustang had hoped, from the moment she asked this of him, that the ink wasn't deep, that it would take only minor burns, nothing too severe, nothing that truly threatened her—and from the start, he had hoped that this would not cause him to hold flame above skin for any length of time. The current results showed him that he would be forced to.

"Just hold still, Riza," he mumbled, his mouth just centimeters from her ear. "I'm sorry." With a third snap, her form wretched beneath his grip and she let out a cry in pain, gravity tugging her downwards and bringing him with her as he couldn't bear to move his arm from her back to have to try this a fourth time. When he realized that his hand was shaking to a point that he couldn't concentrate, he moved it, and stared down at the burn. The flesh was almost blackened, charred, the rest a sickening pale pink color.

His brain wouldn't cooperate with him, and he tried to remember what he had read on how to treat it. She was shivering, eyes open but vision obviously clouded. Mustang did his best to keep a straight face, even to force a smile as her eyes desperately searched for reassurance. Gently, he eased her to be sitting up, carefully bracing her against his chest, fingers absently running through her hair.

"It's okay," he whispered, "I did it—it's gone."


	2. Epilogue

_Epilogue_

Every day, he would arrive at her apartment, obscenely concerned with her recovery. And invariably, staring about four days after the burning escapade, she would have breakfast or at the very least tea prepared for his arrival. He would insist that she should be in bed, getting rest and recovery—after all, that was why she was still in her apartment. She would respond that she was not engaging in dangerous behavior, and therefore there was no harm being done. After listening to her dismiss his concerns daily for nearly two weeks, he gave up. It wasn't worth the effort to argue with her, and he valued the time to sit with her and talk.

When he began working full time at Eastern Headquarters, he still dutifully arrived at her apartment door upon finishing the workday. It was impractical to check on her in the mornings, then, simply because 0600 hours was just a bit too early for visiting and changing bandages.

"Good morning, sir."

Obsidian eyes shot up from forms, startled, to confirm who was speaking to him. She was unmistakable even in the uniform he hadn't seen her in for months—the same amber eyes and light blonde hair. She had a hand raised in salute, standing stiffly in front of him, the smallest hint of a smile on her lips.

"Good morning, but I—"

The moment familiarity crept into his tone of voice, her eyes widened slightly in panic, and he understood. Anything—everything—that could connect them beyond work would be unacceptable. It made sense in the logistical portion of his mind; it was common knowledge that he was the student of her father. It was also fairly common knowledge that she was slow to trust. By implying that more than a work relationship existed between them, it left her father's research vulnerable. The sorrow in her eyes was evident, however slight, and he wondered how he could possibly imagine or even behave like he didn't know Hawkeye, let alone knowing her well, _intimately._

For a moment, the sad smile lingered, vanishing in the blink of an eye—so quickly, he wondered if he imagined it. She dropped her hand to her side, features concealed in a poker-face he could never hope to pull off effectively. "Second Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye, reporting for my first day of duty, sir."

* * *

Thanks to everyone for reading this far, and thanks to my reviewers! This piece did feel borderline unfinished, so I wrote the epilogue. Believe me when I say I tried countless times to write a proper continuation, but nothing suited what was already done. Thus, I wrote this.

Enjoy! Thanks for reading :)


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